


The Whispers of the Gods

by malacophilous (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Frottage, If lube inconvenient come anyway, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Scratching, Sexual Tension, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-27
Updated: 2010-11-27
Packaged: 2017-10-30 11:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/malacophilous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and John have a wordless sexual encounter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Whispers of the Gods

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme prompt: 'John and Sherlock have a wordless sexual encounter, with no prelude.' This fic differs very slightly from the full prompt because I wanted the tension to still be unresolved (even after sex), but the premise is the same.

_Let us be silent, so that we may hear the whispers of the gods._ –Ralph Waldo Emerson

 

‘I’m going out.’

 

John was one sleeve into his coat when Sherlock stood up from his chair.  John stopped; they looked at each other, and John couldn’t tear his eyes away.

 

This had been happening more and more frequently over the past week, ever since they (well, Sherlock) had solved the severed thumb case.  One of them would move suddenly, or look as if they were about to speak, and they would end up staring at each other, forgetting what else had been going on, forgetting even why they were staring.

 

John’s fingers slipped and his coat slid in slow motion, bunching, hanging round the wrist of his sleeved arm.  He hadn’t realised, anymore, that he was holding it.  Sherlock hesitated where he stood, eyes locked with John’s.

 

They seemed to move with one mind as they lunged for each other, John’s coat dropping to the floor, Sherlock’s dressing gown falling shortly after, shirts and trousers leaving their bodies as if of their own accord, John’s shoes were kicked off, his socks left on and disregarded because they would take too much effort to remove when all he wanted to do was look at Sherlock, look at him _more_.

 

Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed keenly, as if he were looking at some interesting bit of trace evidence through his magnifier, but he was looking at John’s face, John’s neck, his chest, his bared arms.  John relished the feeling of being examined.  Sherlock’s noiseless scrutiny was better than the most lavish compliments.

 

They both moved their hands at the same time, bumped knuckles slightly but didn’t heed the mistake, continued to their intended destinations—John’s hands arrived at Sherlock’s hips and grasped, as if he would float away if he were not grounded by them, or that Sherlock would; Sherlock’s left hand wrapped fully around John’s cock and his fingers still overlapped each other, they were so long, and his right hand slid up John’s back, only to be dragged back down his spine with a delicious rasp of fingernails.

 

There was no lube to be had, standing by the door—if they had been nearer the kitchen things would have been easier, but they were too absorbed in each other to even think of moving to another room.  Sherlock, in the most uncouth gesture John had ever seen him perform, spit into his own hand and slicked it over John’s cock, bringing a startle of goosebumps out on John’s skin.  John let his hands wander, not thinking, only moving, and as his fingers found and pinched Sherlock’s nipples Sherlock made an utterly immoral sound, a low, grinding purr deep in his chest that rose in pitch to a wordless gasp as John pulled and let go abruptly.

 

That sound, combined with the look on Sherlock’s face, the way his eyes had flickered, almost rolled back, made John quite literally weak at the knees, so John decided, why not, and knelt before Sherlock on the doormat.  John took Sherlock’s cock in his hand, didn’t think about what he was doing, didn’t think of its shape in comparison to his own, didn’t second-guess, didn’t notice how the coarse texture of the doormat pressed almost painfully into his knees, just licked his lips and eased the head of Sherlock’s cock between them.

 

He felt Sherlock move, and glanced up; it was a difficult angle, and trying to make out Sherlock’s face hurt the backs of his eyes, but he didn’t care, he needed to see it.  Sherlock had leaned forward, one hand on the door behind John, one hand on the back of John’s head, fingers twisting in his hair.

 

That growl emerged once more as John slid further along Sherlock’s cock, and John could actually feel the vibration of the sound on his tongue.  He felt Sherlock’s thighs trembling on either side of him as he took Sherlock’s cock fully into his mouth, felt it bump against his soft palate before meeting the back of his throat.  John took a deep breath through his nose, then held it, using the few moments until he had to breathe again to swallow several times.  Sherlock’s hips twitched, bucked forward ever so slightly; he was now resting his entire forearm against the door, and his forehead on his arm, and due to the angle John couldn’t see his face.  That was all right.  His cock was enough, for now.

 

Sherlock’s breathing was becoming ragged, hitching on the inhalations; he continued to tremble.  John slid back, taking a new breath, rolling his tongue round and round the end of Sherlock’s cock until Sherlock’s hand in his hair was clenched so hard it hurt.  With a faint sound like a delighted sob, Sherlock tugged at John’s hair and he got the message to back off.  John licked his lips again, and looked up at Sherlock, expectant, curious.

 

Sherlock seemed to collapse, and it took a moment for John to realise that that was how terribly lanky people got down on the floor quickly from a standing position, they just sort of collapsed and folded up like some spring-loaded thing, but by the time he realised this, Sherlock was kissing him fiercely, and John’s heart was pounding in his throat, and he got a bit lost in things.

 

At some point while kissing they rolled over sideways onto the floor, one of John’s shoes digging into the small of his back, the abrasive doormat half under John and scratching one of Sherlock’s legs, the leg he slid between John’s as he settled over him, supported on his hands on either side of John’s head, his back arched in a strict parabola so their cocks bumped together, slid, caught with a perfect, stuttering drag where the wetness of John’s mouth hadn’t fully slicked Sherlock’s skin.  Sherlock didn’t seem to even be aiming to rub against John’s cock, but rather John, generally, so Sherlock’s cock ended up to the left of John’s, pressing hotly against his abdomen and leaving a gleaming smudge of pre-come in its wake with every roll of Sherlock’s hips.  John lifted his own hips off the floor, and their cocks collided again, then Sherlock’s swerved, and John reached between them to guide it between his thighs.  Once in place, when John tensed his thigh muscles, pressed his legs together, Sherlock’s intense growl roiled through the air once more, and John shivered, the sound going straight round his cock like a physical touch.

 

Sherlock’s body rose and fell over John’s, and John, who was still being jabbed in the back by his shoe, raised his hips higher off the floor than before and grabbed the shoe from under himself, tossing it aside.  In the process of doing this, his cock had ground against Sherlock’s abdomen and he had clenched his thighs tightly round Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock’s arms began to shake with the effort of supporting his own weight under the onslaught of sensations.  Sherlock’s hair was clinging to his forehead; a bead of sweat dropped from Sherlock’s brow onto John’s chest, and it began to run slowly down the side of his ribcage.

 

There was too much friction, now, and it was overwhelming.  John’s hands scrabbled for purchase across the floor; he caught hold of Sherlock’s dressing gown where it had been cast aside, and he clenched his fist in its fabric, and with his other hand he braced himself against the wainscoting.

 

When John came, his head was full of sounds, though the room was silent save for his own cry.  Sherlock moved, stopped what he was doing and shifted, now bending over John’s abdomen, licking him clean with long, slow, catlike strokes of his tongue.  John regained feeling in his fingers, realised he had them and ought to touch things, and reached for Sherlock’s cock again, but Sherlock batted his hand away impatiently.  With a languidness that absolutely suited him, Sherlock licked John’s cock clean of the last vestiges of his orgasm, and when John let out a quiet, shaky breath, Sherlock came, silently, without having been brought off by touch.

 

For a long moment, they stayed where they were.  Then the room seemed to reappear around them, the scratchy doormat pricking against John’s arse, the floor a little cold; Sherlock picked a hair off of his tongue and flicked it away; John cleared his throat, his mouth coated with the taste of ejaculate.

 

They rose, they dressed; Sherlock wiped the perspiration from his brow with the back of his forearm before shrugging on his dressing gown.  John put on his coat, checked the pocket for his keys, and gave Sherlock a curt nod.

 

‘I’m going out,’ he repeated.

 

‘Get milk,’ said Sherlock.


End file.
